


Black

by WolfAndHound_Archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Marauders' Era, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 09:50:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5923984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfAndHound_Archivist/pseuds/WolfAndHound_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why Remus' favorite color is black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Lassenia, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Wolf and Hound](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Wolf_and_Hound), which was created to make stories posted to the Sirius_Black_and_Remus_Lupin Yahoo! mailing list easier to find. However, even though I still love the fandom, I am no longer active in it and do not have the time to maintain it. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in December 2015. I posted an announcement with Open Doors, but we may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Wolf and Hound collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wolfandhound/profile).

Black. Deepest, darkest, midnight. 

The absence of other color.

A void, an emptiness, an endless abyss? No, never that. The absence of color, but not of light. 

The light dances along contours, revealing life, vital and explosive. Black, with light, gleaming like polished onyx, shining like a raven's wing, like jet, like obsidian. No highlights of auburn or brown or chestnut. Black.

Glossy black that reflects light caught in its waves, in hot rays of blazing white, in almost iridescent patterns. Black like sable, that captures the heat of the sun so it burns your fingers when your hands are irresistibly drawn to explore its silkiness. Black. Completely, undeniably, purely black. 

He had never known anyone else to have hair like this. Not James, not Hagrid, not even Snape. Oh, yes, everyone would say their hair was black, and usually it looked black, but their hair was different. In the bright, midday sun, one could see faint auburn highlights winking in Hagrid'shair. And there was more than a hint of deep, mink brown in Snape's. James shared the same coal black shade, but his version of the color did not have the sheen, the fluidness, the sparkling glow that made his lover's hair seem like a living extension of the man himself. His mate's hair promised wildness, recklessness, and untamable passion.

The first time he had seen that hair spread out on the pure, white sheets at Hogwarts, he wanted to touch it. He yearned to stroke it to see if the waves would spring back under his hands. He wanted to twirl a lock like a black ribbon around his fingers. He craved to lightly grasp a handful, like a skein of rich, thick, silk and feel it slide across his palms. 

The first time he realized that the attraction he felt for his friend was not a simple crush, he wanted to wake up with his face buried in a cloud of ebony. As his wolf-self was free to nuzzle the thick fur of his dog pack-mate, so his human-self longed to feel that glossy curtain against his cheeks. He ached to shiver at the tendrils tickling his skin, drifting down his chest and stomach and abdomen, like whispery fingers teasing his flesh.

And then the day came when he gave in to temptation, when, realizing his friend was asleep, he watched his hand, seemingly of its own accord, reach out to touch the dark mane, ever so lightly. The barrier was broken, and he didn't have the strength of will to turn back. Though he was afraid of rejection, of revulsion, of losing one of the precious few he called friend, he could not turn back.

And one touch was not enough. His hand slowly swept over black locks, absorbing the heat from the sun that had brightly burnished that hair. He was reminded of a black cat that he had as a pet long ago, which would descend into a trance-like state as she basked in the sun. Her fur would turn hot to the touch, making him wonder why her body didn't burn. This hair was the same, blazingly black in the sun.

He wondered how far down the heat went. If he slid his hand gently up the back of the neck, letting his fingers meander through the thickest part of that ebony jungle, would he still feel the heat? No, here it was cooler, like rivulets of water sliding through his fingers. Like a stream in the forest, running dark under the trees. The feeling fascinated him as his fingers twirled and wove and coiled again and again through this unexpected dark treasure. He forgot his fears until his friend shifted slightly. He froze, regretting that he ever gave in to this temptation. He sat perfectly still, hoping against hope that his friend was still asleep, unaware. Then, his heart leapt when he heard, in a throaty whisper, "Mmm...don't stop...that feels good." 

Slowly, he began again, with permission granted now to do as he wished. His fingers gently explored, sometimes gathering handfuls of hair against his palm; sometimes capturing a single tress and sliding along its length, only to plunge back into the wonderful softness. He lost track of time, until it struck him that he wanted more and different sensations. Looking at the tall, graceful form lying next to him, he realized that his hands wanted to explore the contours of that body. He didn't dare. He couldn't take that chance. He had taken more liberties than he had a right to expect. He was a friend. He was not and would never be desired as anything more, especially since he was no longer completely human. But, oh, how he wanted it. 

As if sensing his confused feelings, his friend slowly turned and sat up, smiling at him with a smile he had never seen before. He sat motionless, his wandering, inquisitive hands still, wondering what would happen next. No instrument had yet been invented that could measure his surprise when his friend slowly slid his arms around him and drew him close, still with that beautiful smile on his face. Then his friend kissed him, with lips at once strong and soft, demanding and pliant, while his arms tightened in a loving embrace. He responded to that kiss, and felt his heart melt, his hands sliding along the strong shoulders and once again burying themselves in the black mane.

It was the beginning. And while they remained friends, they also become more. Much more. Lovers. Mates. But, the road they followed through the years turned bleak and barren, filled with heartache and betrayal, separation and loneliness, to the point where he believed that he was destined to live the rest of his life in a numbing, gray, sameness. There was no color. There was no black. The road was endless and dusty and empty. Until finally, one night, his mate was back, worn and fragile, but he sensed the bond was still there.

And soon, they were together again, growing stronger and more vital with each night spent in each other's arms. The world was once more awash in blazing color, but what made all his nerve ends tingle, what thrilled him to the bottom of his soul was the sight and feel of black.


End file.
